


Portrait of the Pirate as Young Man

by glinda4thegood



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Flirting, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from sequel to <i>Lost & Found in Old Atlantis.</i></p><p>Teague’s messenger, Swift, has persuaded Barbossa, Elizabeth and Jack to return to Shipwreck Cove. Once at the Cove, our trio is introduced to an Oriental Lady who tells them of a prophecy, and requests Elizabeth’s assistance. The Pirate King’s presence provides Teague with the opportunity to discuss Brethren business. And other things. Written for PotC Fest, prompt 32.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portrait of the Pirate as Young Man

“My ship will sail at sunrise.” Lady Lin stood and prepared to leave the table.

“I’ll not leave the Pearl,” Barbossa shook his head. The safety of the Cove was a relative thing -- relative to the number of the Brethren that happened to be in the area. “And she’s in no shape for a lengthy voyage.”

“The Pearl will be in my care. In recognition of your services, Lady Lin has arranged payment for all necessary repairs and refitting. Work has already begun.” Teague lounged back and winked at his son. “You’re welcome to stay with us, Jackie, while they’re away.”

“No.” The declination, uttered by three voices at nearly the same moment, set the corner of Teague’s mouth quirking with amusement.

Barbossa looked at Elizabeth, then Jack, who had both spoken as he gave his opinion on the matter. Jack’s eyebrows disappeared under his scarf. He looked simultaneously pleased and affronted.

“That’s interesting. Didn’t imagine you would particularly object to proceeding without me, Hector.”

“Absence.” Barbossa pointed at his own chest, then at Jack. “Pirate. I’ll not leave you alone with the Pearl, even in her current condition.”

“If we go,” Elizabeth said directly to the Lady, “all will go. Where would you have us go, and how long will the voyage take?”

“The first portion of our journey is inconsequential. A day, perhaps two. If we proceed with the second excursion, it may be some weeks before we return to Shipwreck Cove, and your Black Pearl.” Lady Lin inclined her head, a formal gesture of leave-taking. “Sunrise, then.”

Teague watched Elizabeth through half-closed eyes as the Lady left. “I’d be proud to call you daughter. Is it too early for that familiarity between us?”

The sly, ingratiating tone in Teague’s rough voice did not translate to any appropriate familial sentiment Barbossa could identify. He narrowed his eyes and glared at the Keeper.

Warm color spread under the golden skin along her cheeks. “I think Elizabeth is appropriate for informal moments.”

Jack muttered a few words, largely unintelligible, although _lubricious old louche_ clearly finished the comment. “Any of that wine left?”

“Swift -- find what they’ll need. Conversation creates thirst, and I’ve no doubt a long conversation looms imminent. Escort Captains Barbossa and Sparrow to the nest. I have a need to speak with Captain Swann on business of the Brethren, in her capacity as King.”

Barbossa saw Elizabeth’s nod of assent. He was surprised to discover he harbored a small suspicion concerning the Keeper’s motivation, but found no good reason to protest. Jack, however, was not as reticent.

“As long as it’s business, Teague. If you’ve an inclination for anything more personal, y’might begin by reciting the names of your other sons and daughters running about the place. Followed by the names of their mothers.” Jack held his father’s eyes directly, without any of his usual exaggerated mannerisms. “I understand there are several grandchildren to add to our family register as well.”

“I’ll let you be judge of how and when Captain Swann receives more intimate knowledge of our genealogy, Jackie.” Teague’s long fingers swept the air. “Get away with you now.”

Jack’s mouth opened, then closed.

“A most excellent dinner, Captain Teague.” Barbossa trod on Jack’s foot as he brushed past. “Be on the move, Jack.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I always knew my father was not a particularly strong man. He had an active, intellectual mind and genuinely kind nature. But he was not a man whose very presence caused backbones to stiffen, fingers to seek the comfort of a weapon. He was, I now realize, a man malleable to sweet words and gentle persuasions. James Norrington was, under all his acquired discipline, stronger than father, but in many ways very much like him.

When he was younger, Will could be cozened with a smile and soft suggestion. The man he has become is keen and tempered like the steel in the swords he once made. A woman’s wiles might still move him in small, inconsequential ways. It may be some time before I can verify this belief.

Why I think of father, James, and Will at this moment is interesting, as Jack would observe with a drawling leer. Strangely the two men closest to me are aloof and resistant to examination, as I martial my wit to face a man instinct tells me is more dangerous than Barbossa at his most pitiless, more charming than Jack when he’s had a large amount of rum and is very much in _that_ kind of mood.

Teague rises, his eyes and face still luminous with amusement from Jack’s implied rebuke. He gestures to the door behind his chair. “Please. Join me for a brandy, Elizabeth.”

“Thank you. We’ve established that you may call me Elizabeth. What shall I call you, Captain Teague?”

His eyes lengthen to slits as he looks me over, head to toe and back again. My entire body responds with a rush of warmth. It is here, I think, that he is most like Jack. Around his dark, evocative, wicked eyes.

“Teague will do. It is what Jackie’s mother called me half the time.”

“And the other half?” I am curious about the relationship between man and woman that resulted in my Sparrow. Which parent is most responsible for this whimsical, infuriating creature’s flights of fancy and genius for drama? Was it mother or father who molded a man who pretends he has wants, but never needs?

“Wasn’t anything I’ll share.” His face is distressed by time, like a well-made, much used saddle bag. Teague shakes his head, voice dropping so low the cavernous depths of his words seem to resonate against my skin in a throbbing line from ear to jaw. “Don’t believe I’ll add to your verbal arsenal, Elizabeth.”

Teague moves slowly, deliberately. There’s more than a hint of stiffness in his posture, but there’s also grace and wiry strength in the old man. When he opens the door with a courtly gesture, Jack appears in my mind’s eye, superimposed over his father for a brief moment. Is Teague’s body as distressed as his face, inked and scarred, lean and tough?

And what would his body look like unclothed? He is older than Barbossa, and Barbossa is older than Jack. Barbossa’s body is lean and strong, with warmly colored red-gold hair accented with the pure white of age. His skin bears the marks of a hard life, but I see essential masculine beauty in his naked form.

Jack has more meat between his bones and skin, and is spare where Barbossa is rangy. Whorled designs cover his chest like exotic, stencilled fabric. He has more presence naked than he has clothed; nakedness reveals his lithesome strength, the oak-hard muscles in his arms.

Divested of layers of disguising raiment, I imagine Teague’s body would combine elements of both my men. His skin would reveal a wealth of stories written by experience’s sharp quill over flesh and bone. The hair on his lower belly would be mostly silver, if the errant strands on Jack are good clue.

I briefly consider whether his cock and balls would look like Jack’s, or if Jack’s look like Teague’s . . . but find I prefer not to include dangling male equipment in what I admit is slightly idealized portraiture.

Curiously, the images do not banish easily. I think I may be blushing again. Just when did such imagining become so easy for me?

“My workroom, and haven.” Teague gestures at a pair of luxurious fauteuils that look as if they might have come from a king’s palace. In contrast to the preciousness of the chairs, the battered, wide-topped stool sitting between them makes me think of the eclectic furnishings of Barbossa’s cabin. Pirates. Magpies the lot of them.

“Please, be comfortable.”

I sit gingerly on embroidered silk, and look around avidly. The room is another of the City’s marvels. Light wavers and sparks off facetted blocks of glass that line shallow ledges and cluster around oil lamps on broad workbenches. A sweep of leaded windows nearly identical to the Captain’s cabin aboard the Pearl provide additional diffuse light for what is clearly an artist’s workshop -- or perhaps, misplaced Oriental bazaar. It’s almost too much to absorb. Bolts of richly colored fabric, rolled rugs, and stacks of brass-bound seachests create a tangled, exotic jumble. A section of wall twice the span of a man’s arms is covered with mounted blades of every description and size that catch glass-reflected light and wink at me. Two swords have hilts that remind me of Will’s work, and my fingers itch to close around the cold metal, feel it warm under my hand, and try the weight and balance of the blade.

There are two workbenches. One bench appears dedicated to the working of wood. The other holds stoppered glass containers, and apothecary appurtenances. A light, pervasive odor emanates from this area: bergamot, patchouli and ambergris.

Stacks of apparently finished canvases hunker under the workbenches. Framed paintings hang everywhere. Women. Men. Children. Landscapes. The technique is the same as that seen in the dining room portraits. My eye is not trained, but I perceive an informal, spontaneous beauty to the oddly sketchy images.

“Titles bestowed by popular decision are often transitory.” Teague places a decanter and two goblets on the stool, then settles into the other chair. He pours a generous portion of liquid into the goblets. “Which of your titles do you value most, Elizabeth?”

I take the brandy from his hand. The aromatic bite of liquor tickles my nose as I take a sip. “What are you trying to tell me? If you say that being Pirate King has little practical application, I will not be surprised.”

“It’s more than your title of King. When Barbossa burned the nine pieces of eight, and set Calypso free, everything changed for the Brethren.” Teague sits ramrod straight in the chair, one arm draped elegantly over an armrest. “Over the years there have been requests from particularly successful and bold men who wished to be given formal Lordship of this or that bit of water. Men who wished for recognition from the Brethren. Such requests have always been denied without explanation.”

“It was because the nine Lords held the responsibility between them, for Calypso’s binding? That was the only reason their titles existed?”

“Not the only reason, but it was the reason that held them together, more or less, over the years.” Teague tilts his goblet for a long, slow drink, dark eyes half closed in apparent pleasure. When the amber liquor is gone he places the goblet on the stool between us. “I am the Keeper of the Code, Elizabeth, and the Code has not been altered or expanded for many years. My duty is to hold men true to a system of governance that clings to the present on finger-and-toe-holds that vanish as we speak.”

I finish the brandy. There is more heat in my stomach and chest, either from the liquor or from listening to Teague’s seductive voice. He’s trying to tell me something, trying to get me to think about our lives, actions, choices. Our future.

“All these paintings. You are the artist?” I place my goblet next to his on the stool and stand. There is a lone easel at the end of one workbench with a head and shoulders portrait. “Is that Jack, when he was younger?”

“You’ve picked the only painting I’m not responsible for.”

The resemblance, I see, is both uncanny and superficial. From ten steps distant it might be the youthful representation of either man. When I’m close enough to touch the canvas, I know the wicked dark eyes, quizzical sweep of brow, sensual quirking mouth all belong to Teague. The nose is larger, less classic than Jack’s. Strands of crimped dark hair soften the angularity of a longer face. The style of painting is similar to the other portraits around me, but there’s a finer, more exact quality in the rendering of eyes and lips, a realism that almost leads me to expect one dark eye will close in a wink, those sensual lips will part with a low suggestion.

“Jack’s mother. Taught me. To paint.”

I turn from the portrait to the man and meet his gaze. “Why am I having a drink with you? It’s not to discuss the future of the Brethren.”

“No. Although I will call upon all the Captains of the Pearl to speak of this when you return from Lady Lin’s quest.” Teague’s hands move restlessly, hover, then pour more brandy in our goblets. “I’ve been worried about Jackie.”

Not what I expected. I catch his gleam of amusement and shut my gaping mouth. “Worried?”

Teague takes his time drinking the brandy. Reflected light gives the illusion that miniature fireflies swarm in the night of his eyes. “As much as I wished to have a conversation with you, I wished to provide an opportunity for Captains Sparrow and Barbossa to speak without your presence.”

He laughs, a thing so rich and deep that I think I might hold out my fingers and stroke the sound.

If my fingers were not clenched.

“You don’t need to be defensive with me, Elizabeth. I cannot, will not judge you in this.” Teague is still laughing.

“Indeed not,” I say, more forcefully than I intend. “Pot. Kettle. Why do you think Jack and Barbossa need time alone? To speak of what?”

“They need to reach an accord. Over you.” Laughter has vanished. “There is no Code for what you are trying to live, Elizabeth. No guidelines or chart. Experience and past history between Jackie and Barbossa -- ruined camaraderie, mutiny, theft, hatred, murder -- cannot be wiped clean even by death. For such men to love the same woman, coexist and not daily attempt to gut each other . . . you must realize how unnatural and wearing such a life might be.”

“They both made me a promise not to harm each other.” I force myself to take another drink of brandy. The expression of compassion and understanding on the old pirate’s face almost brings me to tears.

“And that may hold, for a time. Are you prepared to plan for your future, to build your own Code, society and system of governance?” Teague leans toward me, dangerously intent. His fingers close around mine and remove them from the goblet. His skin is hot, like Jack’s. He brings my hand to his mouth and whispers against my palm.

“Elizabeth Swann Turner, King of the Brethren, Pirate Lord of Singapore, lover of Captain Will Turner, Captain Hector Barbossa and Captain Jack Sparrow. What will you do to keep your own?”

The question moves through my skin like a tremor through the earth, revealing slippage, crumbling and ruins in my heart. My nipples press hard against the muslin of my shirt. Even as I frame an answer I wonder what this mouth, this voice might do against flesh more sensitive than the palm of my hand.

“I will do what I must.” My hand is shaking and I pull it from his grasp. “If you could share any personal experience that might assist me in such delicate negotiations . . .?”

“You’ve already done better than I ever managed.” Teague’s eyes dance. “Pay attention to small changes in weather. Don’t be slow to ask for help. Be blunt, be forthright. Men cannot read women’s thoughts. Kisses are easier to misinterpret than words.”

“If I am accused of talking them to death, I shall place the blame squarely on your shoulders.” I stand and Teague rises from his chair. “You asked me which of my titles I value most. The answer may be -- one I do not yet fully own.” He is taller than Jack, and I have to stretch a bit. The hair of his beard is surprisingly soft. He holds himself very still as I place my hand on his chest and kiss his cheek. “I’m still not comfortable with daughter, but _family_ would be an honor. Have I left any room for misinterpretation?”

His bottom lip twitches, but otherwise there is no reaction. I turn and move away toward the door. “Thank you for the brandy, Teague.”

“Most welcome, Elizabeth. Safe journey.”

Swift is waiting on the other side of the door. I follow him through the remnants of gracious and humble ships that live on in this strange warren that is Shipwreck City.

Barbossa and Jack. Opposite sides of the same coin. Men who may not agree with me, but will listen when I speak. Men who prove their respect and affection for me by waking each morning and deciding to postpone killing each other.

It is a promising beginning.


End file.
